


Being your slave

by telera



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Autoerotic Asphyxiation, Collars, Consensual, Dom/sub, M/M, Master/Slave, Stockings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-09
Updated: 2013-07-09
Packaged: 2017-12-18 06:01:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/876442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/telera/pseuds/telera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The lovely <a href="http://asksassyjackcrawford.tumblr.com/">asksassyjackcrawford</a> requested a fanfic after this deliciously hot and kinky NSFW fanart by <a href="http://wilm-graams.tumblr.com/">wilm-graams</a><br/> <br/><a href="http://wilm-graams.tumblr.com/post/54655488779/inappropriate-porn-things">HERE</a></p><p> How could I resist? I hope you all enjoy it! ♥</p>
            </blockquote>





	Being your slave

Will spent many hours alone in Hannibal's house, fascinated by the many curious artefacts and antique objects on his shelves and cabinets. He was especially fond of the little wooden horse by the door of the office. Where did it come from? Why had Hannibal bought it? And what memories did it bring?

 

Will could very well ask the same questions about almost all the objects in the office, and he spent many idle hours creating little stories for all of them. The bonsai tree between the long curtains had been a present from an opera patron. The kabuki paintings over the blue Louis XVI couch came from Japan, and Hannibal had bought them in one of his visits to Tokyo.

 

The phrenology bust with the different sections of the brain was another story. Will imagined Hannibal had acquired it in an auction in Vienna, and that it had belonged to Sigmund Freud himself. The harpsichord came from an antique store in Prague, and Hannibal had bought it to a blind, old artisan in exchange for his edition of King James Bible. Then there was the sad and ghostly image of an unknown girl over the fireplace. Hannibal had drawn it himself, and it never failed to make Will feel as if the portrait of Lenore had somehow left the pages of _The Raven_ to materialise here.

 

Will always came to the little mirror behind a Greek urn last. He pondered his image and wondered if he was the most exquisite piece Hannibal owned. When the idea first entered his mind, Will felt repulsed by it. Offended, even disgusted. But one day he realized Hannibal never locked any doors. His house was always open, like a church, and Will never left. Hour after hour he waited for Hannibal to arrive, to begin the sessions that turned Will inside out, making him cry, sweat, bleed and weep. Will lived for these sessions. So, of course he was free. And of course he was owned.

\---

 

At 7 p.m. sharp Will heard footsteps, and as always a wave of anxiety washed over him. He was jubilant Hannibal was home, but also scared and worried and aroused.

 

_Being you slave, what should I do-_

_What should I do-_

 

He repeated it over and over again in his head, the half-forgotten line a soothing mantra to calm his fear. Hannibal entered the office then, and Will felt his raw power and authority filling the room with silent electricity. He was so overwhelmed that he averted his eyes, and focused on the Indian carpet while Hannibal sauntered to where he stood.

 

_What should I do-_

_What should I do-_

 

Hannibal was so close, his pinstripe suit so perfect and imposing that Will couldn't take it. He fell to his knees, the need so irresistible that he sighed in relief when all he saw was Hannibal's freshly pressed trousers. He rested his forehead on the fine fabric covering Hannibal's thigh and closed his eyes.

 

Many things could happen then. He could be ignored, as he was most evenings. He could be scolded for something, bent over the desk to receive swift and unforgiving punishment. Or he could be used to satisfy Hannibal in several ways. Whatever the case, Will was hard already.

 

But something remarkable happened then. Hannibal's hand, the one which fed, bathed and spanked him, ran smoothly through his curls and caressed his forehead.

 

'I have a gift for you'.

 

Will nuzzled the hand lovingly, revelling in the gentle touch. He could wish for death now, and be happy for it.

 

'Open it'.

 

It was luxuriously wrapped, a feather light box that revealed a pair of retro seamed stockings inside. _Black_. _100% nylon. Size L. A must for all vintage fashionistas._

 

Will heard a whimper, hoarse and undignified. Too late he realized it was him, because the humiliation was so exquisite that he had started to leak.

 

'Come'.

 

Hannibal fastened a leash to Will's collar and tugged. Will followed him, dizzy and lightheaded tripping on the stairs until they reached the master room. There he watched in trepidation as Hannibal took his clothes off. Slowly, leaving them on the clothes valet with no wrinkles or rush. He hung his paisley tie on a tie hanger, and left his cuff links in a sandalwood box.

 

It was only when he fetched a vial of oil from the nightstand that Will finally understood what was going to happen. He would be Hannibal's toy for the night, an expensive, complex toy that Hannibal would use for his pleasure. The stockings were just the batteries to fuel him.

 

Will swallowed hard, because it was beautiful to watch Hannibal lying on the bed, a muscular, tanned body that could belong to any of his beloved statues in Florence. And it was torture to see his fingers glistening with the sweet smelling oil, pushing into his body in a circular motion, one, two. When he was done Hannibal turned to his side and the silent command made Will strip off his clothes. He put on the stockings with shaky hands, praying he made no ladders with his nails.

 

He had to look glorious, because Hannibal caught himself in hand and started to stroke his cock slowly. Sometimes the evening ended just like that, with Will on his knees receiving Hannibal's come on his face. But tonight would be different.

 

'Come here' Hannibal ordered lying on his stomach, and Will got on the bed and straddled him awkwardly. He had never been in this position before, and for a scary moment, Will didn't know what to do or how to do it. It seemed an impossible task to bring pleasure to Hannibal, a strap-on would do the job better. But Hannibal grabbed the leash tightly around his hand, and pulled hard enough for Will to lower his head.

 

'Fuck me'.

 

Will felt the collar constricting around his neck. He had to obey, so he placed the tip of his cock on Hannibal's oiled hole and pushed inside. The pleasure was indescribable, Hannibal's body was so tight and slick around him that Will felt he would come in seconds. But he couldn't, he had to fuck, so he tried pulling out and pushing all the way back in, moaning in ecstasy because he hadn't done this in _years_.

 

Will never knew if it was punishment for his lack of expertise or part of the plan, but suddenly Hannibal yanked at the leash and the choking collar around his neck cut off all his air supply. Will gasped and felt his eyes watering, but the more he flailed the more Hannibal choked him. The immediate effect was that his cock grew impossibly hard, and Will rutted blindly then, humping Hannibal like a crazed, desperate dog needing release more than breathing. It had to last only a few seconds, but his orgasm was a long agonising cry, silent and sweet and blurry red. Will collapsed on the bed gasping from the hypoxia, giddy and tingling and feeling his cock was still shooting.

 

Hannibal claimed his mouth then, gently sucking his breaths and nipping his lips. He hushed Will in a foreign, strange language, tasting his tears and laying a soft, chaste kiss on his forehead.

 

'Sshh, sshh' he soothed 'Sleep now. We'll start again in a few hours'.

**Author's Note:**

> The line Will repeats and the title of this story come from Shakespeare's sonnet LVII.


End file.
